The River to Glory Land

by Janie DeVos

  As Scott listened while Albert explained that Olivia worked for him, and we were celebrating Francie’s birthday, I quickly assessed the man. It was the first time I’d been this close to him. There was no doubt about it; he was handsome, but not in the usual way. His features weren’t perfect. For one thing, his nose was slightly crooked, as though he’d seen the wrong end of a fist, and his nostrils were flared, making him look rather arrogant. He had a small scar beneath his chin, as though that same fist might have found its mark there, too. His light brown hair wasn’t styled in the latest fashion. Instead, he parted it just off-center, and it had just the slightest wave. He also wore it a bit longer so that it touched the collar of his crisp white shirt. But his eyes were the most striking feature of the man. They were slightly heavy-lidded, as though he was covertly taking inventory of everyone and everything. Just then, he turned to me, as though he sensed I was looking him over, and he smiled.

  Quickly averting my eyes from his, I heard Albert invite him to pull up a chair and order a drink.

  Scott lifted a glass of some dark liquid. “I’m set, thanks,” he said. Then, “I don’t have long, Albert. I’m flying out in about an hour.” He looked around at the rest of us. “Please excuse the interruption, ladies.” He smiled. “I’ll try not to keep Albert for too long.” Scott touched his index finger to his forehead in a small salute and then walked off toward the bar.

  “Ladies,” Albert said, rising. “You’ll please excuse my hasty departure. Miss Francine, do have a wonderful birthday,” he said, turning toward her. Then he looked at my sister and, with a twinkle in his eye, said, “And as far as your tardiness is concerned, Miss Strickland; I’d be willing to bet that your employer will be a tad late himself. Ladies,” he said, “I bid you adieu.” Albert bowed slightly and walked away.

  “Well, I swear, Olivia,” Francine said, with eyes agog. “Is he always that debonair?”

  “Somewhat, I guess,” Olivia replied, her eyes following her boss as he walked toward the bar.

  “I bet a couple of belts under his belt helped, too,” I wryly remarked as I watched Albert take the empty bar stool next to Scott’s.

  “Lord, but that fella comin’ in to do business with Mr. Doxley sure is dreamy,” Francine said in a breathy voice.

  “He’s a fly boy,” I replied. “And a criminal.”

  “How’d you know that?” Olivia asked.

  “I hear talk. He’s a bootlegger. He flies the stuff in. Rumor has it he keeps company with that Gertrude Lythgoe.” The girls looked at me as though I was speaking Italian. “You know, the Bahama Queen,” I said, figuring they’d certainly know who she was by her moniker. They still looked confused. “Lordy, do y’all close your eyes to everything goin’ on in this town?” I took a deep breath and continued. “Gertrude Lythgoe runs a liquor business out of Nassau. ’Course you know the stuff is legal there. She runs it in here, but has help doin’ that. By sea, she has Bill McCoy, for one, and by air, she’s probably using Scott Monroe. She’s one vicious lady. To my way of thinking, anyone keeping company with her is just as bad, if not worse.”

  Francine leaned in so as not to be heard. “Who’s she sellin’ booze to in this town?”

  “Let me put it to you this way, Francie,” I replied. “Any business in the hospitality industry that’s thriving—be it a hotel, dance club or restaurant – you can pretty well bet your bonnet that booze is bein’ served there, and I don’t mean the legal complimentary one-drink-with-dinner kind of thing.”

  “No foolin’?” Francine asked, wide-eyed.

  “Every one of ’em?” Olivia asked thickly. By now, she was very well fortified.

  “Lord! Do y’all keep your heads buried in the sand? What’s bringing in the cash is stocking booze by the barrelful!”

  “For land’s sake,” Francine said in a breathy whisper.

  “And by air, too,” I laughed, looking over at Scott Monroe at the bar. Startled, I realized he was looking back, and I had the uncomfortable notion that he knew exactly what we were talking about.

  Chapter 5

  A Race against Time

  The red and gold banners I strung across the veranda just the night before danced in the light breeze, creating a soft clapping sound. I wondered if they’d be an annoyance or add to the festiveness of the day. Checking my watch, I saw that it was 10:45 p.m. I only had fifteen minutes until the doors to the Helm would open and the guests would arrive to watch the first of the fall season’s boat races.

  Daddy and Mama had been so busy for the previous two weeks that, other than seeing them at breakfast, we’d been like ships passing in the night. They’d been focusing all of their energy on making sure the races, and the Strickland Water Craft boats competing in them, were a complete success. It was crucial for their business that everything go off without a hitch. It was crucial for my grandparents’ hotel, as well, since they were the main sponsor of the event, and the races would occur right in front of the Spinnaker. Over the summer, the races had had a fair turnout of spectators, as well as boats competing in them, but our fall and winter races were the most heavily attended, and our biggest moneymakers.

  “Well, crab’s off the menu today!” Peter Neilson said angrily as he walked up behind me.

  Turning around, I saw that he looked quite frazzled. His eyebrows pinched together, and his hair, always perfectly combed in place, stuck up awkwardly as though he’d been running his hands through it.

  “What do you mean ‘crab’s off the menu’?” I asked, smoothing his hair back down.

  “This morning’s shipment from our usual distributor, St. Clair’s, stank! Literally! I told them to take it back and either bring us another load—and fresh this time—or we’d find someone else to supply us. And don’t you know that little peon of a man, Grady, who grates on my nerves I might add, told me that the Belvedere took a double load this morning, which included our order, so they gave us yesterday’s inventory! I asked him why he thought we’d be all right with that and he said he didn’t worry too much about it since the Belvedere paid twice the usual amount.”

  “Son of a gun!” I mumbled under my breath. “Okay, rather than standing here fuming, call Jesse Weiss, over at Joe’s Stone Crabs, and see if he’ll sell us some crabmeat. He’s done it before. If he will, send one of the dishwashers over there to pick it up.” Immediately, Peter turned away to make the call. “And send one of Grandma’s spice cakes to Jesse,” I called after him. “He’s a fool about ’em.”

  I walked toward the maître d’s podium at the front of the room, and as I did, I made myself take a few deep breaths. Though I wouldn’t let Peter see how irritated I was, I was beyond angry. It wasn’t the first time that Chick Belvedere and his employees pulled something like that. The owner of the Belvedere would stoop to whatever means were necessary in order to not just outdo the competition, but totally crush them, as well. I decided to have a little word with Chick once the race was over. In the meantime, it was my job to help Peter see that the running of the Helm went as smoothly as possible. Every table was reserved for the entire afternoon.

  I checked the list at the podium to see who had a reservation, and much to my surprise, saw the name of Sam Smith (a.k.a. Buddy DeMario) on it. Also on the list were the Reverend Tine and his wife, Gladys, from the Methodist church we attended, as well as several wealthy business tycoons from the north, including Cyrus Curtis, the owner and publisher of the Ladies Home Journal, and the Saturday Evening Post. Mr. Curtis had a reputation for enjoying races of all sorts. Now that both dog and horseracing were available in Miami, he visited regularly in the winter. Scanning down the list, I saw Neil and Laura Aldriches’ names, and I felt the blood rush to my face. Though I appreciated their business, I knew that their presence was sure to distract me, and I needed to have my wits together to handle all of the many situations that were sure to crop up throughout the day.

  “Can we
come in?” A voice interrupted my thoughts, and I looked up to see Olivia peeking around the door she’d cracked open. “I know you’re not officially open yet.” She smiled.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I laughed as I pulled open the door. “Of course you can come in.” Standing behind her was Francine, as well Francine’s parents, Jim and Maven Hollister.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Hollister! I didn’t know you were comin’ today. I thought you’d already left for Gastonia.”

  Maven still had family in North Carolina, and planned to spend Thanksgiving with them. Francine, however, wasn’t able to get away. She worked as a switchboard operator and because she was one of the newer employees, she was required to work the holiday shift, which was one of the busiest of the year. Her parents had offered to stay home, but, as Francine told them, she wouldn’t be there much of the time anyway, so they’d agreed to go on. Mama had asked both Rusty and Francine to join us for dinner; Francine was coming but Rusty had already made other plans.

  “We’re leavin’ for Gastonia tomorrow,” Maven explained. “We had to stay to see Rusty race.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I replied. “It’s exciting, isn’t it?”

  This was Rusty’s biggest race yet. We were thrilled, but nervous, for him. My father was on pins and needles because Rusty would be racing one of the company’s newest boats: a wooden runabout with an ultra-sleek hydrofoil design. Daddy had just finished it the month before and wanted to race it himself, but Mama had talked him out of it since his back had been bothering him so much. The other man racing one of Daddy’s boats was Marv Tollison, and he would be in one of the runabouts that had come out of our boatyard the year before. Marv was a reliable driver, and, without a doubt, a good one, but the competition was stiff, and Marv would have to have an exceptional day in order to win the championship title.

  Rusty, on the other hand, seemed to have a certain affinity for handling the boats, and showed great promise of becoming an outstanding driver, but his inexperience was his Achilles heel. Win or not, the performance of Daddy’s boats, especially the new one, was critical in helping to keep Strickland Water Crafts alive. If the professional racing world sat up and took notice, things could rapidly turn around for my parents, but Marv and Rusty needed to handle the boats exceptionally well. There was no doubt about it, Daddy’s skill and craftsmanship rivaled those of his well-respected competitors, like Hacker Boats, or Chris-Craft, and Gar Wood. Daddy had carefully tweaked the lines of his boats so that they road atop the water more cleanly, just skimming the surface, and cutting the turns even tighter. Just those two small variations in design could make all the difference in my father being considered one of the best race boat builders in the world.

  I escorted Olivia and the Hollisters to the table on the veranda that was reserved at all times for our family, and then returned to the front of the restaurant, where Peter was already handling a line of people that had quickly formed. He and I took turns seating each party, and about twenty minutes before the first race started, which was at noon, the Aldriches came through the door. Fortunately, they were Peter’s party to seat. They passed me as I returned from seating my minister and his wife. Laura reached out and touched my arm in greeting and Neil just nodded and quietly said my name while avoiding my eyes as he followed his wife and Peter to their table. Suddenly, the beautiful sunny day had a shadow cast over it and I silently scolded myself, yet again, for letting him affect me that way. It had only been a small kiss, just once, I told myself, and nothing more. And it had obviously meant nothing more to Neil. But even though my head knew that fact, my heart couldn’t accept it.

  “We just got the crab from Jesse,” Peter said, rejoining me at the podium and sounding greatly relieved.

  “What…oh, that’s good,” I said, quickly realizing what he was talking about. I glanced down at our reservation list. “Looks like everyone who made a reservation is here. Hold things down for a few minutes, will you? I need to visit the powder room before the race gets started.”

  I hurried out of the Helm. As I rounded the corner in the hallway, I ran right into my grandfather, Max Harjo.

  “Slow down there, little girl!” He grabbed me by my upper arms to steady me. “You’re runnin’ like you’re in some race. Where you goin’ in such a hurry?” he laughed, with a twinkle in his still-dark blue eyes. Though my grandfather had just passed seventy, the years had been good to him. He was still a handsome man, and his shock of silver-white hair and tanned skin only emphasized the blueness of his eyes. I was grateful that time had not faded them or his deliciously dry sense of humor—which I could relate to easily.

  “I want to get back to the veranda before the real race starts,” I laughed. My grandfather always did my heart good. “I saw Mama and Daddy a little bit ago standing at the seawall by the two boats they’re racing.”

  “Yeah, I saw them, too,” Granddaddy nodded. “Lord, they’re keyed up.”

  “I know,” I laughed. “They’ve been that way for a week now. Between you and me, I’ll be glad when this is all over. They have a lot riding on these races—we all do,” I added softly, searching my grandfather’s eyes for any sign of worry or strain. If he was anxious in any way, you couldn’t tell by looking at him. Maybe it was because he was half Creek Indian. He grew up learning never to let anyone know what it was he was thinking. Without question, my grandfather was levelheaded and unshakably calm, and the cornerstone of our family.

  “Where you watchin’ the races?” I asked.

  “Your grandmother and I will be on the third floor, in the Roosevelt suite. Remember, we’re having that small reception there afterward for the drivers and their guests? We have the best seats in the house up there. If Peter can handle things, why don’t you come join us?”

  “Oh, I wish I could, Granddaddy, but I’d better stay there and help Peter hold down the fort. Fortunately, the restaurant is packed. Have you got everything you need up there?”

  “Actually, we’re low on ice. That’s why I’m down here. I called the kitchen but they’re taking their bloody sweet time. I know, I know; they have their hands full,” he added when he saw me shake my head in disapproval. The kitchen was chaotic and doing the best they could, and, no one was more aware of that than my grandfather was. My grandparents cared deeply about their staff, and the feeling was mutual. It wasn’t often an employee left or was asked to leave, and most of them had been with my grandparents for years.

  “I’ll get the ice, Granddaddy,” I offered.

  “No, no. You’ve got enough to do. I’ll get it.” He placed both of his hands on each side of my face, pulled me toward him, and then kissed my forehead. “Fingers crossed we’re winners today.”

  “Fingers crossed.” I smiled, covering his large, warm hands with mine. Then I reached up and kissed his check before hurrying off to the ladies’ room.

  “Did I miss anything?” I asked Peter when I rejoined him at the podium.

  “Just a couple of last minute arrivals and a few people asking if we had any tables available. I told them that it’s standing room only at the bar.”

  Looking over to the bar, I saw that people were crowded three-deep. Looking from face to face, I recognized most of them, and knew some of them quite well. A few smiled and raised their glasses when they noticed me. Suddenly, a young couple I’d never seen before stepped away, giving me a clear view of Scott Monroe standing there. He leaned casually against the bar as he talked to some man while a brown-haired beauty stood on the other side of Scott, clinging possessively to his arm. He looked down at her and smiled when she said something to him. Then, as he started to look away from her, he caught me watching him. Giving me just the slightest nod of his head, he turned back to the man he was talking to. For some reason, that annoyed me, and I muttered something under my breath about being more careful not to let riffraff into our hotel.

  “Did you say something?” Peter asked
.

  “Oh, nothing, nothing,” I quickly replied. Then, “Peter, who’s that man standing at the bar in the dark brown trousers and light blue sweater?” Obviously, I knew who he was but I wanted to know what Peter knew about him.

  “Who?” Peter said, craning his neck around to look past me.

  “Discreetly, please!” I said, keeping my face turned away from Scott.

  “Oh, that’s…um…” Peter’s brows pinched together as he tried to recall. “That’s that Monroe fellow. He’s the chap that runs that charter plane business. What’s the name of that outfit? Island Air or something like that.”

  “What else do you know about him?” I asked, furtively glancing over at Scott from the corner of my eye while pretending to study the reservation list.

  “Nothing else, really,” Peter replied. “Although, I tend to think anyone running a shuttle to the Bahamas and Cuba is bringing more than just people back from there, if you catch my drift.”

  “You don’t say!” I tried to sound surprised.

  “Heck, yeah!” Peter seemed only too happy to enlighten me. “It’s easier to avoid the border patrol by flying the stuff in than bringing it in by boat. You know how it is; dealing with the cops is a breeze. They can be bought off. But the border patrol fellas…well…they’re a different breed all together.”

  “I didn’t know that!” I truly didn’t.

  “Sure, Lily. Everyone knows that most of the cops are on the take. If a cop catches a rumrunner, it’s a pretty sure bet he’s gonna get off by paying the copper with a case of booze or a few bucks. Everyone knows that this prohibition thing is one of the most disregarded, unpopular laws ever put in place, and, at some point, it’ll be done away with. In the meantime, though, it’s a game of cat and mouse. And when the cat catches that mouse, the mouse can usually buy his way out of it.”